


Just a Name

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, I have to make funny scenes angsty, It's the curse of the Time Lords, The Hounds of Baskerville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:38:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**SPOILERS** for The Hounds of Baskerville.</p><p>On the train ride back from Devon, the importance of names is discussed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Name

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry. I wrote this very quickly and it's terrible, but I needed to write it. Because as funny as the whole "That's his name" scene was, I couldn't shake this idea.

“Lestrade.”

“Lestrade.”

“Lestrade.”

“Lestrade.”

John sighed, leaning forward in his seat and placing his head in his hands. The three of them had wound up taking the same train back from Devon, and while at first John was pleased with the idea of having Lestrade close by for some normal conversation, now he was wondering if their sitting near each other had been such a good idea. He glanced to Sherlock who, upon his latest utterance of the DI’s surname, prodded the man in the shin with his foot. Lestrade, seated across from Sherlock, responded by kicking back—earning a rather undignified yelp from the consulting detective—and saying nothing, rustling the pages of his book irritably.

Sherlock looked to John, pointing at Lestrade like a child trying to tell their mother that their older brother had hit them. John would have none of it. He shrugged.

“ _Greg_ ,” Sherlock said at last, leaning forward towards the DI.

“Oh, so you haven’t deleted it yet,” Lestrade replied, his tone light but his eyes remaining fixed on his book. “Waiting until you get home, are you?”

“No. I’m not,” Sherlock said in a terse, clipped tone. “You’re ignoring me.”

“And so what if I am?” Lestrade asked.

“You’re ignoring me because… because of the name thing,” Sherlock informed him, sounding affronted.

“Again, so what if I am?”

“You have no reason to!”

John sucked in a breath and attempted to disappear into his seat. Lestrade was patient, surely, but John could tell by the way he finally looked up to meet Sherlock’s gaze that the world’s only consulting detective was in for a talking to. Lestrade marked his place in his book, setting it on the empty seat beside him. He folded his hands in his lap and regarded the curly-haired man across from him.

“Really. I have no reason to.”

Sherlock said nothing; apparently, if his pursed lips and stiff posture were any indication, he’d recognized whatever boundary he’d stepped over and the fact that speaking was likely not his best option.

“Let me see if I’ve gotten this right. I know I’m slow and unimaginative, but I think I might have done a pretty decent job with this one,” Lestrade said, moving to fold his arms over his chest. “We’ve known each other nearly six years. Over the course of this time, you’ve nicked more of my warrant cards than I can count and broken into my home and office more frequently than I’d care to remember, so it’s not as though you’ve never seen my name written before. The idea that you’d forgotten it is, frankly, ridiculous. You don’t forget things. Which means you must have deleted it. Repeatedly. Now, from what I understand when you’ve explained it to me, you only delete things that you find irrelevant and unimportant.”

John had half a mind to ask Lestrade to stop there, to claim he’d made his point. The reason for this was that Sherlock had sunk into his seat, his light eyes watching the DI as he hid the rest of his face beneath his high coat collar. His hands were white knuckled upon his own knees. The man radiated discomfort. However, John couldn’t help but feel sympathetic towards Lestrade—it was something he’d wondered about himself back in Devon.

Lestrade barked a quick, clearly humorless laugh.

“You’ll have to forgive me for only getting that far. Perhaps you can fill in the rest for me,” Lestrade said.

“You’re allowing emotion to fog your mind, as usual. I never deleted _you_ , it’s just a name,” Sherlock said defensively. “What does it matter what I call you?”

“You see, this is why I didn’t even want to get into this conversation in the first place. Because for all your powers of deduction, Sherlock, you just can’t _see_ ,” Lestrade pointed out calmly and—it seemed to John—a bit disappointedly. “But you’re absolutely right, as usual. I’m nothing more than your handler. So let’s just drop this now and things will be back to normal in a day or two.”

And by God, John knew it would be. Lestrade hadn’t had any intention of ever bringing it up. The man would have stewed over it for that one or two days he’d mentioned and then moved on. But since Sherlock had brought it up, he’d needed to respond, and now that he had, he was still intent on letting it go.

Even when Lestrade had picked up his book, once more shutting Sherlock out, the consulting detective continued to watch him. John could easily see where Lestrade was coming from. Perhaps it was just a name, but then it was still _his_ name. Sherlock never seemed to have difficulty holding onto other people’s names, even people like Sally, who he didn’t exactly get on with. This was about a name, but it was also about so much more. It had to hurt. They’d sat in silence for about ten minutes, not expecting further discussion, which was why both of them were surprised when Sherlock deemed it appropriate to bring it up once more.

“You’re correct. The things I delete are the things I find irrelevant and unimportant,” Sherlock said. He glanced out the window, plucking at his coat. “…that being said, I do not believe you to be either. I’m…”

He paused, his brow furrowing as he struggled with something internally.

“I’m sorry. If I made it appear that way.”

“How am I to know that you won’t just delete it later?” Lestrade asked after a moment, having let the apology sink in.

Sherlock pursed his lips once again. “The scope of things I deem relevant and important has expanded in the past year. I won’t delete you.”

John couldn’t help but feel a little warmed by the words. He hadn’t said anything outright, nor did John expect him to, but the meaning was there. One look at Lestrade told John it hadn’t been lost on him either. The DI nodded slowly, a spark of affection in his dark eyes and that boyish grin instantly making him look years younger. That was all he’d needed, really. They’d had their talk, John and Lestrade, one night at the pub. Both of them recognized what the threat of Moriarty meant for Sherlock, how allies would be important. In the wake of that discussion, this had been something of a blow to Lestrade’s morale, John realized. The man cared; he didn’t want to think that he was going to be shut out. Deleted.

“Thank you,” Lestrade answered at length. Sherlock nodded and an understanding seemed to pass between them.

 John cleared his throat.

“Earlier, you said you’ve just got one. I don’t think that’s quite true,” he said, looking to his flatmate.

“…perhaps not,” Sherlock agreed.

Lestrade cast a confused look at the two of them, but didn’t pry. “Anyway… remind me to have a word with Mycroft about kidnapping me in the middle of my holiday and sending me to Devon without mentioning drug fogs and demon dogs. Fucking hell.”

Sherlock just grinned.


End file.
